My harvest withers. Health, my  means to live –

All things seem rushing straight into the dark.

But the dark still is God. I would not give

The smallest silver-piece to turn the rush

Backward or sideways. Am I not a spark

Of him who is the light? Fair hope doth flush

My east. – Divine success – Oh, hush and hark!

George MacDonald

A Diary of an Old Soul

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